There was a time in my childhood when my family and I were living in Pakistan. I must have been around 11 or 12 years old. Around Fourty minutes far from where we lived, there was a Wonderland Amusement Park – called Army Stadium that used to have restaurants, clothing stores and fairground rides. There, too, was a store that sold aquarium fish. I used to walk past it, captivated by the delicate, colorful fish swimming peacefully in glass tanks. I always wanted one. But every time I asked my father, he would gently refuse. “They die too quickly,” he would say. “It’s better not to get them, bachem.”
Still, I couldn’t help but dream.
Then, one evening, my cousin — who lived in the United States and was visiting us — decided to take our family out for the night. He took us to that favorite place of ours, full of lights, music, and laughter. Among all the excitement, we came across that same aquarium shop. My heart lit up. I looked at those little fish again and insisted on getting the aquarium, but this time my cousin who is very kind noticed the sparkle in my eyes and bought them for me despite my fathers disagreement. Five Tiny Fish and their Can Of Food. It was a simple act of kindness, but to me, it felt like a dream come true.
When we got home, I carefully chose a spot on top of the fridge to place the fishbowl. I thought it would be the safest place — quiet and undisturbed. I looked after them with excitement and care. Every few days, I would change the water, feed them, and watch them with wonder.
About ten days in, I found one of the fishes motionless. It had died. My heart cracked. I can’t remember what I did with it — maybe my mother threw it in trash. A few days later, another one was gone. My mother gently reminded me to change their water more often. I listened. I tried to do better.
I’d take the bowl to the washroom, pour out the water, and carefully refill it. Sometimes a fish would slip from my hand and fall to the floor. I would panic, scoop it up, and toss it back into the bowl.
But as time passed — maybe twenty to twenty-five days later — I grew tired, lazy. I stopped paying attention. I overfed them. The water grew cloudy. One fish died, then another, until only one remained.
I didn’t realize how delicate their lives were — how too much carelessness, or too much food, could poison their world.
One day, I looked in and saw the last fish had died. It hit me hard. A sharp pain settled in my chest. I had let it die. My neglect had cost it its life. I cried for hours. I didn’t want another fish. I didn’t want to forget.
So, I made myself a promise: I would keep that last fish forever — as a memory, as a keepsake. I wrapped it gently in paper and placed it inside my pencil case.
The next day at school, the heat was unbearable. I opened my pencil case to grab a pen, and the dead fish’s smell hit me. When I went home, I showed it to my mother, and she looked at me with sad eyes. “You can’t keep something that’s dead,” she said. “It’s not meant to stay. Let it go.”
I didn’t want to. But I knew I had to. I had made a promise, but now I had no choice. I went out to our yard, to a little patch near the front gate where flowers grew, and dug a small grave. I buried my fish there and cried my life out.
That experience — simple as it was — left a lasting scar. A wound that hasn’t healed, and perhaps never will. Since then, I’ve never had the heart to keep another pet. The fear of losing it, of watching it die, is more than I can bear. Maybe someday, I’ll get a horse — but only if I’m certain it will outlive me, so I won’t have to say goodbye.
Maybe that experience planted something even deeper in me — a powerful sense of attachment. And so, I always find it nearly impossible to throw things away. I keep everything: strands of my own and family members’ cut hair, my clipped nails, used pens, old draft notes, notebooks from school and university — even things most people would consider useless. And the reason I give myself to not get rid of anything is: It’s been a part of my life, let it stay with me forever. Which it was.
Perhaps God shaped me this way on purpose, gave me a vintage soul — one that values everything, no matter how small or faded.
Maybe He wanted me to learn that even the tiniest life matters — and that nothing should be taken for granted.
Sometimes, God builds your entire future upon a single bitter experience — what hurts you the most today may be the very thing that awakens and prepares you for the days to come; who knows — all I know is that this moment in my life, painful as it was, taught me great lessons.
If I could leave one piece of advice behind — to myself, or to anyone listening — it would be this:
Listen to the wisdom of your elders. If someone gives you advice, don’t let it slip from one ear and out the other. Hold it in your heart. Remember it. If you choose to care for something — a soul, a creature, a bond — do it with presence and consistency. Change the water. Feed gently. Don’t overdo, and don’t forget. Do your part with love — and leave the rest to God.
You’ll never regret care. You’ll only regret neglect.
Noorin Khwaja Eshaan 